The confrontation between them was nothing less than brutal — a clash between reality and what the heart wished to believe.
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The moment they faced each other, reality felt almost cruel in its honesty.
"An explanation, please," Anchana demanded softly, though she had already braced herself for the answer.
Suraj let out a slow breath, eyes clouded with weariness. "I use intimacy as a way to ease the stress from work," he confessed, the words landing heavily between them.
She blinked, stunned. "Have you ever… talked to a doctor about it?"
"I have one. You'll meet him tomorrow," he replied, his tone calm, also too calm for the storm swirling inside her.
"I'm not like that, Suraj. I can't just—"
He cut in gently, voice low but insistent. "You're my woman now. You're the one I care about the most."
"Because your mother and aunt forced you into it?" she challenged.
His gaze softened. "No. Because I wanted to be serious with someone, and you came at the right moment."
She laughed bitterly. "Or maybe you just needed… a distraction!"
He frowned, confused. "You don't understand."
"Maybe I do," she whispered. "You don't see me as a person, just as someone to fill the silence."
Something inside him broke then—an unguarded flash of longing. Before she could step away, he reached for her, drawing her close, his lips trembling with restraint.
The tension between them burned quietly, dangerously. It was no longer about desire, but about pain—his need to feel alive again, her need to protect what was left of her heart.
Their breaths tangled; his hand trembled against her cheek.
"Don't," she pleaded, voice trembling.
"I'm trying," he whispered back. "But I can't stop wanting you."
The world seemed to blur among the quiet hum of the room, and the shadows tracing the curve of her shoulders, the ache between guilt and tenderness. What they shared that night was neither sin nor salvation—only the desperate search for connection between two wounded souls.
When dawn crept in, Anchana woke in his arms, her body was sore and her heart was heavier than ever. She lay still, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. For the first time, she realized how fragile he truly was beneath that calm, powerful exterior.
In her mind, a single thought echoed:
The secret of intimacy… is love.
But she couldn't tell if what they had was love—or just two lonely hearts clinging to the same storm.
The sunlight spilled gently through the sheer curtains, washing the room in a soft golden hue. Anchana stirred, her body aching, her heart even more so.
Suraj was still beside her, arm draped over her waist, his breath slow and steady against her neck. He looked peaceful—almost boyish in his sleep. And for a fleeting moment, she wanted to believe this was love. But reality, ever merciless, whispered otherwise.
She slipped out of bed quietly, wrapping herself in a robe. The mirror caught her reflection—her eyes red from tears she didn't remember shedding, her lips still tinged with the shadow of his kiss.
Her heart whispered, 'What are you doing, Anchana?'
The night before had felt like surrender—an impossible collision between compassion and chaos. She had seen the loneliness in his eyes, the desperation behind his tenderness. It wasn't lust that had broken her walls, but it was the ache of wanting to heal him, even when she knew she couldn't.
Behind her, Suraj stirred.
"Leaving already?" His voice was rough with sleep, but there was something fragile beneath it—fear, perhaps.
She turned, hesitating. "You need rest. And… space, maybe."
He sat up slowly, sheets falling to his waist. "Space from what?" he asked, eyes searching hers.
"From me?"
Anchana swallowed hard. "From all of this. From the confusion. From… last night."
He stood, crossing the small distance between them. His hand brushed her arm, a hesitant touch.
"Don't turn this into something ugly," he said softly. "What happened, it was real. You felt it too."
Her breath caught. "Yes," she whispered, "but real doesn't always mean right."
He looked wounded, as if her words struck deeper than she intended.
"You think I used you?"
"I think you needed me," she said, voice trembling. "But that's not the same thing."
Silence stretched between them. The morning air felt heavier, charged with all the words left unsaid. Suraj stepped closer again, his voice low and unsteady. "You make me feel human, Anchana. Not broken. Not… lost."
She met his gaze, and for a moment, she saw it all—the cracks behind his calm, the sorrow buried under his charm. And in that moment, she realized how dangerous love could be when born from loneliness.
Her eyes softened, filled with an ache she couldn't name. "Then maybe," she whispered, "we both need to learn how to stand without leaning on each other."
He stared at her for a long moment, then looked away, his jaw tightening as if holding back a storm.
When she reached for her clothes, his voice came again—quiet, almost pleading.
"Don't go."
"Ugh… I don't think I can handle this, Suraj," Anchana said, her voice trembling. "Maybe you should go back to your girls… and I'll find someone else to take over my father's company. Honestly… I think this is where I say goodbye."
"Don't say that," he pleaded, his voice heavy with a raw, aching sadness.
"You're already here with me. Don't leave me alone… that would be cruel."
Even in his desperation, there was a tenderness that made her chest tighten.
"You need to take care of yourself," she said softly, trying to steady her own racing heart. "Like you promised… you didn't want to hurt me. But yesterday, Suraj… yesterday was already too much. All day… all night."
He let out a quiet, almost sheepish laugh. "Not all day, my love. I had work. But… whenever I have a moment of freedom, when I see you, everything inside me ignites. I can't help it; I need you so badly."
He whispered it like a confession, and Anchana felt a shiver run through her. He was… complicated, tormented, a man trapped between desire and need. She realized she could never fix him…absolutely. The only choice might be to let him face his own battles alone.
Just before he stepped toward the bathroom, his voice faltered, almost broken.
"You don't… feel any pity for me at all, do you?"